


the constellations aligned

by pocky_slash



Series: Team Shithead [12]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: The night starts as just another one of Dr. von Steuben's monthly theme parties, but it's possible that teasing Ben Walker about his new tattoo, a totally transparent love letter to von Steuben, has planted some ideas into John's head.(AKA John does something impulsive because he's twenty-three and disgustingly in love.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks! New people might want to check out [i saw the whole story unwind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7927810) for some context. Or, just know that the gang is in graduate school studying ghosts and John and Alex have spent approximately thirty-six hours total apart since they met in August.
> 
> To the old guard, thanks for your continued support. You're all stars! [star emoji that I found out the hard way you can only really use in the "work text" field] I especially appreciated the comments on the last part--I'm gonna get to them soon, but just know I was really touched by the personal stories people shared ♥
> 
> Title from the same song that titled the first story, "Going to Port Washington" by the Mountain Goats.

It's too hot to be wearing as many layers as John is wearing and Alex's roaming hands aren't helping matters. He gives one of those roaming hands a sharp slap as they climb up to the front porch of von Steuben's den of iniquity. 

"It's too hot," he tells Alex.

"It's not my fault that a heatwave coincided with a 20s theme party and you look really disgustingly good when you're dressed like you stepped out of the Harlem Renaissance," Alex says, but he draws his hands back at least.

"First off, they're not gonna let us in if we're not on theme," John reminds him, "so you stripping me isn't going to help matters. Secondly, you can do whatever you want to me once we're in air conditioning, I promise, but I gotta be able to breathe before you can work me up like that."

That's a concession in and of itself--while John has never really had a problem showing Alex what's probably a really inappropriate amount of affection in public, something about the organized nature of the backroom sex dealings of von Steuben's parties has always felt a little sleazy to him. Alex says it's because he's too much of a romantic to embrace the practicalities of an email thread where people call dibs on bedrooms (and, on one memorable and unlikely to be replicated evening, a hammock) three days in advance, but John's not sure that's the root cause. He can't quite put his finger on where that sleazy feeling comes from, but it's definitely sort of a turn-off.

Well, a mild turn-off. It's not like John has ever been all that recalcitrant once they're actually at the party with their tongues down each other's throats.

There's a guy John vaguely recognizes from campus sitting outside the door dressed like a gangster. He eyes John and Alex as they approach.

"Uh, swordfish?" John says, and he nods at them and shifts to the side so they can enter the front door.

A blast of air conditioning envelopes them as they step inside, along with a wall of sound. There's big band music blasting in the background and the front room is filled with a crowd of familiar faces in thrift store approximations of twenties attire. There's a bar set up along the wall under the stairs and the place has been decorated to match the theme. The only thing really out of place is the solo cups, but even they're gold and silver instead of the usual red and blue.

John shouldn't really be surprised. Dr. von Steuben is famous for his secret, themed parties--even before John became his TA, he'd heard rumors of them. Hell, even before he came to Morristown there was gossip in the larger parapsych world about the shit that went on behind closed doors. The reality is a little less juicy than the rumors, of course. Yes, there's a themed party about once a month, but pretty much all of the queer grad students on campus are invited and they're less secret than "secret." Nothing goes on at them that you wouldn't find at any other party, save for maybe the private email thread passed between those close enough to von Steuben to call advance dibs on rooms, and even that is straightforward. Alex might make fun of John for being too romantic to appreciate it, but, given his love of rules and guidelines, he's entirely enamored with the system himself.

"Drinks?" John asks, but before he can reply, Molly Ludwig comes careening at him from the kitchen.

"Laurens! Thank fuck, _finally_ ," she says, coming to a stop and grabbing the lapels of John's jacket. "What took you so long?"

"Our friend Herc wanted to tailor our costumes because he's a fucking lunatic," John says.

"No, I'm with him," Alex says. "Can I get you in a vest and bowtie every day, because _fuck_ , Laurens." Alex's hands settle on his hips again and John does a poor job of hiding his smile if Molly's expression is anything to go by.

"Ugh, you two are gross and I'm so jealous and two drinks from now I'll definitely be whining about how girls don't like me, but there are more important matters to discuss at the moment."

One of Alex's arms wraps around John's waist and he rests his chin on John's shoulder.

"What's up?" John asks.

"Ben got a new tattoo and it's in _German_ and I need you to tell me what it means because I'm pretty sure he's lying," Molly says.

"Holy crap, that was fast," Alex says.

"He wouldn't be _that_ obvious, would be?" John asks. "I mean, we all know he's fucking von Steuben, but they're really committed to pretending they're not."

"I mean, he's claiming it's some dumb German saying, but he's English as shit, right? He's always bragging about how his ancestors came here from England and fought in the revolution and blah blah blah," Molly says. "There is _no reason_ for him to get a tattoo in German except as a weird tribute to our German boss who he's definitely fucking."

"Point," John says. "Sure, I can translate. Where is he?"

Molly grabs John's arm and tugs him through the party and down the hall to the sun room, Alex trailing behind with his fingers hooked into John's belt. Molly stops abruptly just outside of the room, abruptly enough that Alex slams into John and John slams into Molly. She glares at him over her shoulder, straightens her dress and headband, and casually strolls into the room. John and Alex follow.

"Hey, Mol, Laurens, Ham," says Pete DePonce, a fourth year parapsych grad student and one of the willowy blonde twinks who follow von Steuben around. He's sitting around a card table with a couple english lit grad students that John vaguely recognizes from these parties, and Louis Ponter, third year parapsych and the other willowy blonde twink that follows von Steuben around. Stretched out on a glider across from them is Ben Walker, one of their fellow first years who is definitely fucking von Steuben. Ponce holds out a joint. "Gonna join us?"

"Hell yeah," Alex says. He grabs John's hand and pulls him over to the low chaise against the wall. "This is gonna be the greatest night of my life. Or, at least of my month."

John rolls his eyes as Alex takes the spliff.

"You're such a shithead," he says.

"I'm a fucking delight," Alex replies. "Though not as much of a delight as you are when you're high."

John's cheeks burn under the curious gazes of Ponce, Ben, Louis, and the lit students. Molly, who once spent an evening with John, Alex, Lafayette, Dolley Payne, and her bong, just smirks.

"He's very, uh...cuddly...when he's high," Alex explains. "And he looks amazing tonight and I'm looking forward to having a lap full of Laurens telling me how pretty I am and how soft my hair is and how much he loves me."

John elbows Alex in the ribs as he holds the joint up to his lips and inhales. The jolt makes Alex sputter and cough, but he still hands the joint over to John and kisses his cheek. John glares at him as he takes his own hit and then passes it to Molly. Shit, they're smoking some high quality stuff--normally it takes him at least two hits to feel this headrush at the start of a high.

"I feel that," Ponce says, giving John a slow once over. "Y'all are poly, right?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," John says firmly. Alex curls an arm around John's waist and tugs him a little closer and John lays his hand on Alex's knee pointedly.

"We're monogam-ish," Alex says, because he's annoyingly proud of that stupid pun and never misses a chance to roll it out. "Sometimes when John's not feeling it I hook up with other people, but if he is around, I'm not particularly interested in anyone else."

"I don't even have the energy to sleep with Alex all the time, let alone a third party," John adds and ignores how disappointed Ponce looks. Time to change the subject. "So, anyway, what are you guys up to?"

Ben is stricken, his eyes going wide, but Ponce obliviously says, "Comparing tattoo stories. Ben just got a new one he was showing off. You got any ink, Laurens?"

"I'm not gonna sleep with you, Ponce," John reminds him.

"There's a reason we call them 'the marrieds,'" Molly adds. "Literally the only time I see them apart is in the class I have with Ham."

"I know, I know," Ponce says, waving vaguely and accepting the joint from one of the lit students. "Ham?"

"Nope," Alex says.

"And I know Mol's got her dead woman or whatever--"

" _Witte wieven_ ," Molly says. "Fuck, and you call yourself a parapsych student."

"What's Ben's new tattoo, then?" John asks. He's trying to shake the defensiveness--they're here to have a good time, Ponce is a shithead but he's not a bad dude and he'll drop the flirtation if John continues to ignore him, and they're about to get some dirt on Ben. It's a good night, it's going to be a good night, and there's no reason for him to stress himself out being pissy, which will ultimately lead to him being self-conscious about how pissy he is. He's gonna ruin his high, and if he ruins it by being in a shit mood, drinking's just gonna make him aggressive. He doesn't come to these parties to pick fights, he comes to dance with Alex and socialize with the other queers on campus and eventually have sex up against a wall in some random room of von Steuben's house.

"Walker?" Ponce says.

Alex must sense John's discomfort, because he swoops in and snatches the joint, gives it back to John, and then takes John's free hand in his own. Alex kisses each of his fingertips while he takes a hit, gentle and sweet and lingering. Meanwhile, Ben is reluctantly getting to his feet and undoing the buttons of his shirt. His tie is already loose around his neck, his suspenders hanging at his hips. He reaches them just as John is passing the joint and gives John a hard look before turning around.

 _Lieben und Husten lassen sich nicht verbergen,_ it says in black script. John bites back his smile.

"What's it mean?" Alex asks, blinking up innocently at Ben. 

Ben glares at John again, holding his gaze as he says pointedly, "Anger and cough are hard to hide. It's an old German saying about, you know, keeping your temper."

"Mmhm," John says. Ben glares at him, so his smirk must be obvious.

"Interesting," Alex says. Ben tears his glare away from John to shoot it briefly at Alex and then Molly.

"Yeah," Ben says. "I read it in a book and I liked it. That's all."

"Of course," Molly says.

"Give me the damn joint," Ben mutters, holding his hand out to Louis and snatching it away once it's offered to him. Louis just sets to work rolling another one, humming under his breath and grinning just a little. John wonders if Louis doesn't know German as well.

Speaking of, he slips his phone out of his pocket and casually starts a new group chat with Molly and Alex.

 _yeah, no, he's lying a little,_ he types as Ponce rolls up his sleeve to explain something about one of his tattoos. _it means roughly 'love and cough can't be hidden.'_

Probably the simultaneous buzzing of Alex and Molly's phones gives them away, but Ben is the only one who seems to notice. Molly's grin is sharp when she pulls out her phone. Alex hides a laugh in John's shoulder.

 _I knew it!! They're fucking!!_ Molly sends back.

 _Yeah, but we knew that,_ Alex replies. _I can't believe that he got his love for Steubs permanently etched on his skin. It's been less than a year!_ Almost immediately after he hits send on the second message, Alex glances up at John and starts a third. _Babe, why haven't you gotten a vague German proverb proclaiming your love for me tattooed on you yet? We've been together longer._

John glances up at the rest of the room, but they're still talking about tattoos and mostly oblivious.

 _it would have to be in french tho since that's your native language, if we're following their convention here,_ John sends.

Molly sighs audibly. 

_Ugh, you guys are bad enough out loud,_ she types.

 _À toi, pour toujours,_ Alex replies, and John's face heats up. 

"Ugh, can I get that joint over here?" Molly says out loud. John takes pity on her and puts his phone away before the whole thread turns into flirting via romantic French quotes. If Alex looks slightly disappointed, the expression fades into a grin when John slides his hand up from Alex's knee to mid-thigh and leans against him contentedly.

They stick around for a few more hits and then leave the sun room ebullient and laughing, their arms wrapped around each other as they stumble back to the party.

"Dance with me?" Alex asks, lacing their fingers together. John is stoned enough that he doesn't even bother with a smartass remark, just lets himself be tugged to the impromptu dance floor and wraps his arms around Alex. 

"Someone to Watch Over Me" is tinkling out of the speakers and mostly audible over the chatter. It's not the Ella Fitzgerald version that John is familiar with, but that's about as much thought as his mind bothers to give the choice of music with Alex holding onto him and the gentle, mellow high making his limbs heavy and his heart light. Alex calls John a romantic, but he's not sure he agrees. John is practical and a little cynical--historically, he hasn't been a great boyfriend or a very attentive one. There are maybe a half dozen broken hearts lingering in his wake and maybe another half dozen disastrous hook-ups. He's always liked the idea of romance, but it seemed like something that happened to other people. He was too messed up, too depressed, too pathetic. He was so sure it wasn't in his future that he didn't even bother to long for it.

And then, Alexander.

If John is a romantic it's because Alex inspires it in him. Alex, who's earnest and direct and has no desire to play the usual games. Alex, who tells John how he feels without pause and who values honesty and who loves John deeply, wholly, comfortably. He's not afraid to say sappy things, even in front of the other guys, even in front of the Washingtons. He's up front about what he wants and vocal in his adoration and gratitude. He doesn't back away from sweet gestures and he treats John like he hung the moon. Most of all, he's patient, he's so endlessly patient and understanding of John's fucked up head and his inability to just _say things_. He eases confessions out of John, gently pulls out what's wrong and _listens_. John is a mess, he's a shitshow, he has enough baggage trailing behind him to fill an international airport, and that's just the stuff that Alex knows about. There are things he hasn't broached, things he hasn't mentioned, things he can barely think about himself, and even with all that, the shitstorm that seems to surround John, Alex is there and he's kind and he's understanding and he loves John anyway.

So, yeah, if John's become a romantic it's entirely because Alex deserves nothing less.

They dance to two more songs. Alex loses his pageboy cap somewhere along the line, and when the music transitions from slow ballads into Count Basie, they find their way to a newly freed loveseat against the wall, pausing along the way to snag some drinks from the makeshift bar. John sits down heavily and pulls Alex after him, sitting as close as he can. It's not close enough--it was better when they were dancing, pressed together from forehead to hip, close enough that he could feel Alex's heartbeat. 

God, he loves Alex.

"'Love and cough can't be hidden,'" Alex muses, sipping his drink. "Did he purposely choose it ironically, given that he's still trying to hide the whole thing?"

"Well, we all know," John says. "And he knows we all know, so maybe it's a commentary on that? Like, he tried to hide it but he's so fucking deep that even his best efforts were futile?"

"That sounds right," Alex says. He hums for a moment, staring unseeingly out at the crowd and then turning back to John, eyes wide and solemn. "I don't think I could do it."

"Get a tattoo?" John asks slowly. He's sure that's not what Alex means and he's equally sure that if he thought about it for a second he could figure it out--they're so in-tune most of the time that it creeps the fuck out of their labmates and friends--but he'd have to stop staring at Alex's eyes and the curve of his cheek and the slope of his nose and that just sounds...silly.

"No," Alex says. "I mean...hide a relationship. Or, I guess, hide being in love with someone. Jesus, we can't even go ten minutes without checking in on each other. Can you imagine how long we'd last pretending we were just friends?"

With the way John's looking at Alex right now--the way he always looks at Alex, really--he doesn't think they'd last the space of five minutes, and he tells Alex as much. Alex laughs and leans over to kiss him and one kiss turns to two, to three. He slumps down in the cushions, going boneless and mellow and still staring at John with those wide, affectionate, wondering eyes.

"It might be easier if we were in the closet," John says. "I mean--people still assume straight as a default, right? As long as we avoided like, outright making out and claimed we were straight, I bet people would believe we were just Very Good Friends with weird boundaries."

"I dunno," Alex says. "I spend a lot of time staring at your ass."

John sputters, laughing, and Alex is far too pleased with himself.

"Let's just be glad we can be as grossly affectionate as we want to be," John says, and Alex leans over and kisses him again. When he pulls back, they sit quietly for a moment, just looking at each other and drinking to the tune of '20s jazz and the chatter of the party.

"So, you never answered Ponce's question," Alex says eventually, pushing a flyaway curl behind John's ear. "And I know you don't have any tattoos because I'm intimately familiar with every inch of your body--" He nuzzles the edge of John's jaw and John laughs breathlessly. "--but did you ever think about it?"

"Nah," John says. He shifts around until he's curled more tightly at Alex's side, playing with a few strands of hair that have come loose from his bun. "Martha has one. She got it her first year in college--it's a bird, some kind of particular bird. It has some sort of meaning to her, but I'm not sure what. That was her big rebellion, I think." He takes off his fedora and places it on Alex's head instead. Alex's bun is higher than John's ponytail, so it doesn't fit at snugly, but it still looks good. Alex looks so good. Maybe he was right about letting Herc tailor their costumes. "Your hair is so soft."

"What was your big rebellion, then?" Alex asks. He slips the elastic out of John's hair and slowly starts to spread out his curls.

"Uh, abandoning law school plans to study parapsych and estranging myself from my entire family?" John reminds him lightly, and Alex laughs maybe harder than that deserves.

They're definitely high. They're definitely a little high. And with the added alcohol, John's maybe very abruptly feeling it.

"Right, right," Alex says, lifting his head up and laughing again. "Duh. Sorry." He kisses John's temple, his cheek, the edge of his jaw. "You never thought about it, though? A tattoo?"

"Nope," John says. "I already have enough distinguishing marks on my skin, as you like to remind me with frequency." He headbutts Alex's shoulder.

"Yeah, it's a shame they're all covered up," Alex says, even as he drags his finger from freckle to freckle across John's cheek and up to his hairline. John shivers--his nerves are lighting up along the path of Alex's finger. His nerves are lighting up everywhere they're touching, a slow, steady burn, a warmth pooling in his gut, a lightness in his heart. Alex is so beautiful--he's so beautiful and John is so lucky. He'd love Alex no matter what--he's a genius and he's funny and he loves John endlessly. But, god, he's so beautiful.

John rubs his face against Alex's shoulder and tries to shift even closer. Their legs tangle together and John takes Alex's tie in his hands, staring down at the pattern and petting the silk before glancing up at Alex's face again.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," Alex says.

"I love you."

"I love you too," Alex says, his dopey grin large enough to crinkle the skin around his eyes. John has to touch that too, tracing his finger over the smooth skin there, then sliding down to Alex's stubbly cheek and his lips--god, Alex has such nice lips, his whole mouth is nice. His mouth and his eyes. And his nose. His whole...face region.

It's early yet, it's so early, they should probably socialize, but--

"Got us the library," Alex says, reading John's mind the way he always does. He reaches up to cover John's hand with his own, kissing his fingers and then pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. "All ready and waiting for us whenever."

"I want to kiss every part of you," John says solemnly. He starts by pushing himself up to kiss Alex's nose.

"I definitely want to encourage that," Alex assures him. "C'mon, baby. Get off me."

That seems like an awful idea. If John gets up, he won't be touching Alex anymore, and that's the whole point, isn't it? Alex is warm and soft and alive under his fingers. He's fragile and precious and John loves him, he loves him so much, his skin and bones and the blood and muscle running under the surface. Every molecule. Every part of Alex is perfect to him. Every part of Alex has been entrusted to John to care for and he takes that job seriously, so seriously. 

He cups Alex's cheek just to feel the curve of his smile under his hand, then ducks his head to inspect where his throat disappears under his shirt collar.

"Baby," Alex says, laughing. "We can do this inside. Shit, how are you so wasted?"

"I'm not wasted," John tells him. "My inhibitions are just low enough that all of the, you know, wanting you that I try to hold back is spilling out. This is how I always feel. This is what I want to do all the time." He kisses Alex's throat. "I want to do nothing but this."

"I do too," Alex says, bending his neck to whisper the words in John's ear, low and hot. "But I want to do it while stripping every stitch of clothing off of you. I want to do it where I can touch every inch of you and keep touching until you can't do anything but beg for more."

That is-- 

That is an incentive.

They somehow get to their feet, though it feels to John like they've barely separated their tangle of limbs. They weave through the crowd and up the stairs and into the back bedroom that's been converted into a library. John distantly hears the door slam and lock behind them, but that's not as interesting as the slow reveal of Alex's throat, new skin visible inch by inch as John unknots his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Make me beg," John murmurs, looking up from the buttons and catching his lower lip between his teeth. Alex swallows hard. Already flushed, his color deepens and his grip on John goes tighter and his breath catches in his throat and then they're meeting in a kiss, hot and slow, lips sliding together, Alex's hands fisting in John's hair hard enough to hurt. The high, breathless noise that John makes is lost in the kiss, but the surge of arousal leaves his entire body vibrating. Alex knows just how to play him, knows every spot to put his hands and mouth to drive John out of his mind. Alex is the only person who's ever cared enough to learn.

Alex's fingernails dig into John's scalp as they keep kissing. It's a good hurt, the way Alex's teeth sinking into his lower lip is a good hurt, the way his back hitting the wall is a good hurt. He tastes gin in Alex's mouth, gin and champagne and lemon, and John is maybe learning something about mixing hard liquor and weed, because smoking may make him affectionate, but this is something else. This is like lava beating through his heart, slowly creeping through his veins, searing hot but slow, slow, enjoying the ride, consuming him little by little.

They kiss until John is dizzy with it, bodies pressed close together but still, save for their mouths. They kiss until John's mouth feels bruised, moving at the same slow pace, at once patient and captivated. Devout, almost, in their attention. When Alex pulls away, it's to press his mouth against John's throat, lips and teeth moving against all the places that John loves, all the places Alex has memorized and filed away in his genius mind in a box full of ways to pull John apart. John's hat has long since been knocked from Alex's head, but John pulls out his hair elastic and sinks his fingers into Alex's hair, which is thick and soft. He urges Alex on, his breath coming short and fast at the feeling of Alex's teeth right where he craves them and then suddenly stutters something like a moan when Alex's leg slips between his thighs. This fire in him is such a full-body high that he almost forgot about his dick.

He certainly remembers it now.

Alex pulls away, stymied by John's tie and collar, struck dumb by desire, blinking slowly, looking as though he can't quite remember all the moving parts to undressing someone else. Beneath the confusion is a sort of awe and wonder that John knows he's reflecting right back. _This is the love of my life,_ he thinks, and knows, despite the weed and the gin and the hormones and the rose-tinted giddiness of arousal, that it's true.

John steps back into Alex's personal space before he can dither too much longer and grabs either end of his tie, still loose around his neck. Tugging gently, he backs up towards the bed in the corner, pulling Alex after him, step after step until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he drops the tie and sits down. Alex has recovered his wits, though not lost the dumbstruck look of love.

"What do you want?" Alex asks him. "Anything you want. Always. God, you look--" He reaches out to touch John's cheek.

"I want your hands on me," John says, holding Alex's gaze. "I want to see you. I want you to make me forget everything but your name."

"I can do that," Alex says. His voice is hoarse. "I can--touch every inch of you and make you beg, that's what I said, yeah?" John nods and Alex gets closer, closer, nudges John onto his back and leans over him, his hair falling around his face in a dark curtain. "I keep my promises."

"Show me," John says, and Alex, with his hot eyes and his eager hands and the soft stream of adoration whispered against John's skin, is eager to comply.

* * *

It's still dark when John wakes, but quiet. It must be the early hours of the morning if the sun hasn't come up but the house is sleeping.

Or, well, mostly sleeping. The drag of something cool and smooth against his shoulder indicates that at least one other person is awake.

"What are you doing?" he asks. His voice creaks, hoarse from sleep, and Alex shushes him softly.

"You don't have to be awake yet," he says.

John rolls his eyes. He'd normally flop onto his back and give Alex a skeptical look--it's _Saturday_ and it's _dark_ , of course he doesn't have to be awake--but whatever is happening on his shoulder is still happening.

"Yeah, I know, but I am," he says. He's awake and a little chilly--the heat must have broken overnight, but the central air is still running and John's still as naked as he was when he fell asleep, his muscles loose and worn out, his body exhausted, his heart full with the knowledge of Alex's love and the memory of his touch. He made good on his promise--every inch of John's skin had been worshipped and his voice was hoarse from whimpering Alex's name.

It was a good Friday night, all in all.

"You're so pretty when you sleep, though," Alex murmurs. John snorts, a quiet huff of air in the stillness of the room, hardly louder than the air conditioning. "Of course, you're always pretty."

"Shut up," John groans. It's funny, sometimes, how he doesn't think twice about Alex choking on his dick or rimming him, but these stupid compliments make him feel like his face is on fire. The weed's definitely made its way out of his system, then. "You didn't answer my question."

"What am I doing?" Alex repeats. "I'm making constellations out of your freckles."

It takes John a moment of trying to dissect the metaphor before it clicks that Alex means it literally--the cool slide on his shoulder is a felt-tipped pen.

"You're such a fucking nerd," John says, but he's sure Alex can hear the smile in his voice.

"Your nerd," Alex reminds him. " _À toi, pour toujours._ "

"My nerd," John agrees. When he feels the pen lift for a moment, he shifts position, rolling more fully onto his stomach and crossing his arms on his pillow so he can rest his head on them and actually see Alex as he works. Alex is still naked too, curled around John like a parenthesis, and there are already love bites blooming dark against his skin, scattered around his neck and chest. John hadn't necessarily _intended_ to do that--they're not teenagers--but he can't say he doesn't get a kick out of seeing them. It's not possession, exactly, but something more like an annotation. John's combed through Alex, studied him intimately, and left a commentary on all of his favorite parts.

He meets Alex's eyes and smiles. Alex smiles in return, or maybe Alex smiles first and John's smile is the response, or maybe they're simultaneous, a spontaneous expression of the joy they see in each other, a shared moment of delight in companionship.

Maybe he's not quite as sober as he thought.

Alex sleeps an average of about four hours a night. John's not sure how he still functions as a human being, but he does, and brilliantly.

("Imagine," John said to him once, months ago, "how much you could get done if you slept a full eight."

"I have," Alex replied. "The world's not ready for that kind of greatness. It's best if I stick to four for the time being." John's pretty sure he wasn't even joking.)

It means, though, that Alex walks around with perpetual bedroom eyes, dark circles staining beneath and heavy lids. It shouldn't be sexy--objectively, it's probably not. Objectively, Alex probably looks sickly. But John's been conditioned to find them desperately attractive, especially when they're aimed at him from the other side of a pillow.

"Constellations," John repeats softly.

"There are whole universes on your skin, John Laurens," Alex says, earnest and gentle enough that John has to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his face into his hands to hide his grin and blush. "Mine to map out."

"Oh my god, you're a goddamn _sap_ ," John insists. Alex just presses his lips to John's bare shoulder and hums, then pulls back. After a moment, the felt-tipped pen presses back into his skin and John turns his head back, watching Alex's frown of concentration as he makes slow, deliberate lines across John's back. Minutes pass and the hum of the central air and the gentle path of the pen start to lull John back to sleep.

"We should get pancakes on the way home," he mumbles sleepily.

"We'll be the best dressed guys at the diner," Alex replies and John laughs and yawns and closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.

* * *

When John gets out of the shower Saturday afternoon, he wanders into the living room in his boxers, wrapping his hair in a towel.

"Hey, asshole, you could have mentioned you used the last of my bodywash. I had to use Laf's stupid French--" When he lifts his head, flipping the end of the towel back, he's presented with Alex trying very hard to look like he's not having a reaction. "--okay, what?"

"Nothing," Alex says, his non-expression firmly in place. He's already showered and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that might have been John's at some point before Alex moved in. The last traces of Steubs' speakeasy are probably crumpled in a pile on the floor with the rest of their laundry in exchange for Alex's regular Saturday uniform. "Um. Just."

John raises a single eyebrow, his favorite tool for bending Alex to his will. Well. Favorite G-rated tool.

"So I guess that pen I was using this morning was maybe, um...permanent?"

It takes John a moment, but once he figures out what Alex is talking about, he nearly trips over his own feet in his flight back to the bathroom. Sure enough, the thin black lines connecting his freckles have barely faded after a scalding shower and John groans and bangs his forehead against the mirror. Apparently the last traces of the party aren't quite gone after all.

"It's not like anyone but me is going to see them," Alex says from the doorway, but he's wincing. "And, in my defense, I thought it was just a regular pen with I picked it up from the desk."

"I guess I should be grateful you didn't trace them over onto my face," John sighs. He watches in the mirror as Alex approaches him and then wraps his arms around John's waist, resting his cheek against his shoulder and meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"It's like you're carrying a part of me with you or something," he says.

"I spend most of my day carrying you with me literally while I drive your ass around town," John replies, but as the shock of seeing the black zigzags across his back fades, he's relaxing into it. Alex is right--it's only mid-April. No one is going to be seeing him shirtless. The lines will fade in a few days and until then, it's kind of nice to think of Alex mapping galaxies across his skin.

There are worse fates than carrying an abstract love letter on your back.

"I can't believe you fucking drew all over me with a permanent marker," he says, shaking his head.

"It's hardly the shittiest thing I've done this week," Alex says.

"That's not, like, a comfort." Still, John turns his head and manages to press an awkward kiss to Alex's forehead. "I need to get dressed if I'm gonna get the car to the shop on time. It'll probably take about two hours--you want me to drop you anywhere before I go?"

Alex releases John and chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully for a second. John has a flash of memory, a shiver down his spine as he remembers what it felt like to have Alex's teeth on his own lip like that, but it's there and gone by the time Alex says, "Can you bring me and my bike to the county library?"

John technically has to pass the garage and go all the way through town and out the other side to get to the library, but he nods anyway.

"Sure. Five minutes."

"Five minutes!" Alex agrees and darts back out into the living room to throw his books and research together while John gets dressed.

John drops Alex off without incident and then drops the car off without incident. It'll be, as he predicted, two hours until they're finished. Plenty of time to get his grading done. Or, it would be plenty of time if he hadn't left his headphones back at the apartment. He can't quite tune out the blaring, obnoxious cable news show playing in the waiting room, nor can he ignore the crying baby wailing its poor head off just outside on the neighboring restaurant's patio. He makes it about twenty minutes before he gives his cell number to the receptionist and decides to take a walk and find a Starbucks to work in until it's time to pick the car up.

He walks past the train station and a bar and a sandwich shop, enjoying the afternoon and allowing his mind to wander to the night before. For all they were making fun of Ben and his secret tattoo, John's really the same way. He and Alex met at the end of August. It hasn't even been a year, but John knows, he _knows_ that he loves Alex, that he'll always love Alex. He knew the moment they met that Alex was going to be someone worth knowing and he knew within a little over a month that he was head over heels in love. They haven't spent more than thirty-six hours apart since the night they met, and aside from one night on a work trip and four nights when Alex was quarantined with the flu in February, they haven't slept alone. He can mock Ben for getting his love for Steubs tattooed on his skin, but John let Alex sketch his affection across his back without flinching. Sure, it will wash away, but the sentiment is the same.

Up ahead, he thinks he sees the sign for a hipster coffee shop and picks up his pace.

There are a lot of reasons to mock Ben and von Steuben and their weird little fling, but probably the tattoo shouldn't be one of them. John wears his love on his sleeve even without the permanent ink, after all.

And that's the thought that's running through his head when he gets close enough to the shop in the distance to realize it's not a hipster coffee shop--it's a hipster tattoo parlor. John doesn't believe in fate, but sometimes the universe is definitely trying to get a message across.

The shop looks clean and there's a "People Love us on Yelp!" window cling next to a sticker that proclaims it a "New Jersey Best Bet 2014" with _The Star-Ledger_ 's logo. The lighted sign says "open," and "walk-ins welcome!" is tacked up underneath. John has Alex's ink all over his back and the world seems to have sent him a pretty clear sign that at least some of it should stay there.

He pulls open the front door and slowly approaches the reception desk.

"Hi," he says slowly. There's a woman about his age sitting behind it. She has an asymmetrical side-shave streaked with pink, a septum piercing, and plugs in her ears. He'd put even money on her green cardigan covering up some tattoos. "You do walk-ins?"

"It depends," she says, leaning on her forearms and giving him a generic customer service smile. "What you want, colors, artist availability...we definitely do walk-in consults, but I don't know if we can fit you in to walk out with ink today."

"This would be...quick, I think," he says. Is he doing this? Is this crazy and impulsive? What if Alex hates it? What if Alex leaves him? Will it just upset him if Alex ends up finding someone else?

"Well, what did you have in mind?" she asks.

"Okay, so, this is weird," John says. "This is gonna sound weird."

"I'm sure I've heard weirder," she tells him.

"Um, my boyfriend drew something on my back," he says. "It's not--it's just some lines? And he accidentally did it in permanent marker, so it's still there, and I thought--um."

"You thought you'd get them tattooed permanently?" the woman says. She's smirking, but not unkindly.

"Uh, yeah," John says. "Not that weird then, huh?"

"Depends on the art," she says. "I've seen people get some pretty heinous things tattooed because their partner drew them. Is your boy a good artist?"

"He's a shit artist," John says. "But what he drew wasn't art." It's easier, he thinks, just to show her. He turns around, back to the reception desk, and pulls his t-shirt over his head. The receptionist gives a low whistle. "He, um. He's always going on about my freckles looking like a galaxy. So he drew his own star map." He's glad he's facing the door because he can feel a flush creeping across his cheeks.

"Not heinous," the woman says. "Pretty damn cute, actually. And, you're right--that would be quick. Unless--do you want the whole back?" 

Alex had scattered lines from the nape of John's neck to the small of his back, from shoulder to shoulder.

"No," John says quickly. "Just part of it."

"Then yeah," she says. "It would be quick. We've got an artist who does great line work--let me see what her schedule looks like."

The receptionist disappears around a corner, leaving John to wander around the waiting area. For a moment, he pulls out his phone to text Alex, but in the end he refrains. He's not sure if he stops because he wants it to be a surprise or because he's afraid Alex will think it's a stupid idea.

Maybe it is a stupid idea. Maybe Molly and Tad and Lafayette and Dolley will think it's as stupid as Ben's tattoo is. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it for himself. It doesn't matter what they think--it doesn't even matter what Alex thinks, really. He's not doing it for Alex. He's doing it because he loves Alex, yes, and because Alex loves him, but even if Alex does walk out on him some day, it's still something he thinks he'd like to have. It's proof that, at a point in time, someone loved him enough to find worlds to explore within him.

The impulsive idea that dropped into his mind on the sidewalk is a certainty by the time the receptionist returns. There's an East Asian woman following her, her long black hair pulled up into a bun and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her outfit is a riot of electric pink and royal blue, her arms and bare shoulders sporting several intricate tattoos. She's holding what looks like a photo album.

"This is Annie Nguyen," the receptionist says. "She's got a free forty-five minutes if you really want to do this."

"I do," John tells her with conviction and she makes finger guns at him. "John Laurens." He extends his hand to the artist, who shakes it and smiles.

"Nice to meet you. Julie was telling me you need me to trace something your boyfriend did?" He can tell from her strained smile that she's skeptical.

"Yeah," John says. "Sort of?"

"I normally try to stay away from doing your partner's name or your buddy's drawing," she says slowly. "But Julie was pretty insistent this is different."

"It is," John says, and pulls his t-shirt over his head for the second time. Annie is quiet for a moment. He wishes he could see her face.

"Okay, I'm in," she says. "I guess we're not gonna need my portfolio. Put your shirt back on and follow me."

John pulls the shirt over his head and picks up his bags again. The receptionist--Julie, apparently--gives him a double thumbs up as he follows Annie back into the shop. They pass a few rooms with closed doors, the buzz of tattoo machines and low music filling the hall. Annie leads him into a clean, brightly lit room decorated with vintage maps. She shows him where to put his bags, then sits on a stool and picks up a purple marker, staring at him thoughtfully. He tries not to fidget under her gaze.

"Do you want the whole thing?" she asks him. "Because that would take longer. I'd have to cut it into two appointments."

"Not the whole thing," John says. "Just...some of it, I guess?"

Annie sucks on her lower lip for a moment, evaluating him further.

"Take off your shirt," she tells him, getting to her feet. "How about this? You point out which ones you want in the mirror, I'll mark them with purple, and then we'll go over them. You want solid lines or dotted lines?"

John hadn't considered that.

"Uh, maybe a mix?" he says. Annie hands him a pencil and gestures for him to turn around so he can see his back in the mirror.

"We'll work it out," she says.

And then do. He decides on a collection of lines on his right shoulder, the ones that woke him up in the early hours of the morning. Annie painstakingly marks off what he wants, then takes a series of pictures on his phone to confirm that everything is in the right place. She erases the marker lines with a generous amount of rubbing alcohol, then sets to work with the tattoo machine.

It hurts less than John expects, though it's far from painless. It is quick, though--a half dozen straight and dotted lines, thin and delicate, and she's done. She even has time to take some photos for her portfolio before her next appointment. John walks out with a page of aftercare instructions ("Put your bag on your other shoulder, come on, man," Annie reminds him as he swings his backpack up) and another thirty minutes before his car will be ready.

John's known for being reckless and impulsive, but his head is spinning as he thinks about how quickly the whole thing went down. Yesterday, the thought hadn't even occurred to him. Today, he has the worlds Alex created written into his skin.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly enough. He goes back to the garage and finishes some grading, texts Alex idly about a research project they're doing. The car repairs are, miraculously, cheaper than estimated, so he feels a little less guilty about impulsively getting a tattoo, no matter how small and comparably inexpensive. He spends the rest of the afternoon at the lab, dragging into early evening, then heads out on a case with Alex, Lafayette, and Herc. It's preliminary work--setting up equipment, taking statements--and they're done before ten, leaving plenty of time for a couple of drinks at the Frog before they head home.

Through all of that, though, John doesn't mention the tattoo to Alex.

It's not that he's afraid of Alex's judgement--it's his body, after all, and he's relatively positive Alex will be flattered. He's not sure why he doesn't say anything, but the more time that passes, the weirder it would be to bring it up. _Oh, hey, by the way, I got a tattoo five hours ago and haven't said anything yet despite spending literally every second with you since I got back._ He keeps his mouth shut, tries to remember to keep his backpack off of his right shoulder, and tries to figure out what he's going to say once Alex inevitably sees it once they're in bed.

Of course, it doesn't even take that long. When they get home, John takes off the hoodie he's been wearing all afternoon and settles into the couch to see what's on Netflix worth watching. Alex and Lafayette join him before long, and once they're done squabbling over what to watch, Alex snuggles into John's side to get comfortable.

Then raises his head and frowns at John's shoulder in confusion.

"Is there something under your shirt?" he asks, running his fingers along John's shoulder, tracing the edge of the bandage. "Shit, are you hurt?"

"Noooo," John says slowly, but that doesn't stop Alex from sliding a hand up under John's shirt and gingerly feeling out the bandage.

"You're all taped up!" Alex says, alarmed. He starts to tug John's shirt up, even as John grabs the hem to keep it down. "What happened?"

"I would appreciate it if you could keep your clothes on at least until you get to your bedroom," Lafayette says, but he's watching them with interest.

"I'm not hurt!" John says. "I just--I did a thing." He loses the battle with Alex and his t-shirt is unceremoniously pulled over his head. It hangs awkwardly from his elbows while Alex inspects the bandage more closely. 

"What do you mean you--" And then it seems to hit him. "Are you shitting me?"

"No," John says. He slides his t-shirt off the rest of the way so he can turn to look at Alex, as difficult as it is to meet his eyes without turning bright as a tomato.

"What did you--really?" Alex asks. "Tell me it's not a dumb German proverb."

"What is going on?" Lafayette asks. 

"John got a tattoo," Alex says, just as John says, "It's not a dumb German proverb."

"Good," Alex says. "Can I see it?"

"I'm supposed to wash it now anyway and I'm gonna need some help so...I guess," John says. He doesn't know why he's dragging his feet. It's not like he can hide it from the man who shares his bed, his job, his life, and most of his wardrobe. 

"I don't know if I should be excited or nervous," Alex says. "I can't believe you didn't _tell me_ , you asshole. I thought you were getting the a/c in your car fixed."

"I was," John says. "And I was wandering around, looking for a coffee shop to grade in while I was waiting and--it's a long story. Are you gonna help me clean it or not?"

"Yes, yes!" Alex says.

They leave Lafayette in front of the television and troop into the bathroom. John grabs the folded up aftercare sheet and the tube of moisturizing cream out of his bag on the way, and smooths the paper open on his thigh once he's standing in front of the mirror.

"Okay," he says, looking at the sheet and not up at the mirror, where he knows Alex is staring at him. "I'm supposed to take off the bandage, then carefully wash away the gross shit that's left on it with warm water and mild antibacterial soap. After that, I'm supposed to put this goop on it."

"I can do that," Alex says. He's standing behind John, but he can practically see Alex's hands twitching to peel away the bandage. John distracts himself by running the water until it's warm. When he turns back around, Alex is frowning and tapping his fingers against his thighs.

"What?" John asks.

"Just...you know I was joking last night, right?" Alex says, and John freezes up a little, the way he always freezes up when Alex says he was joking about something non-specific, the way he's always still distantly afraid the joke is that John is lovable at all. "When I was ragging you about not having a tattoo even though we've been together longer than Ben's been fucking Steubs." And John relaxes a little, his shoulders sinking just a little in relief.

"I know," John says. "This isn't about that. I mean, I guess it is, since that's why it was on my mind, but it's not even about you, really. Except, I guess it's about you too, but it's mostly about--fucking, just take the bandage off, okay? Jesus." 

Alex laughs, looking less twitchy, and gently turns John around, guiding him back to his previous position in front of the mirror. Alex's fingers are gentle as they peel away the medical tape. And then the bandage is off completely and Alex is--quiet. Very quiet. He's still, too, for long seconds, until he finally urges John to lean over so his shoulder is closer to the sink. He wets his fingers and drags them gently across John's shoulder moving in gentle strokes. He cups some more water in his hands and then pours it over John's shoulder once, twice, and then again. John stands up and Alex pats his shoulder dry with some tissues and then rubs some of the cream gently over the tattoo. The touch is warm, the motions gentle, as if he's touching something fragile or precious. His eyes remain fixed upon John's shoulder. John's eyes remain fixed on Alex's face in the mirror.

"I don't think I've ever heard you stay this quiet while you were awake," John says. He hopes he doesn't sound as nervous as he feels.

"I spent the last few minutes thinking about a million possibilities, but this didn't even occur to me," Alex finally says. He looks up and meets John's eyes in the mirror. He looks genuinely shocked. 

But not unhappy.

He doesn't owe Alex an explanation, he knows that. And he doesn't _want_ to explain any more than he ever wants to tell Alex what he's thinking and why. 

He takes a deep breath anyway, and, even though he has to sacrifice eye contact to do it, says, "I was thinking about it. About you...about...about what you said about us being together just as long. Longer. And I didn't...I didn't do it because you said that. It wasn't like...a challenge or a contest. But I was thinking about how we were joking about it, about Ben and von Steuben, but I've known you just as long, and I know. I know I love you. I know--I know even if you walked out on me tomorrow, I'll never love anyone else the way I love you." 

He takes a moment to breathe and to put his thoughts in order. Alex, who knows him inside and out after all these months, gives him the space and the time to think.

"I was thinking about that and I was thinking about how you love these dumb things about me that I'd never think to love. How I love dumb things about you that probably aren't, you know, objectively attractive. And the drawings on my back and and how you...you, um. You love me enough to map out my body like that. To learn it and leave your mark. And I looked up and I was standing in front of a tattoo parlor and...." 

He looks back up into the mirror and meets Alex's eyes. He shrugs.

"John," Alex says softly, but that's all. He looks down at John's shoulder again, his eyes so soft it makes something deep in John's chest ache. He runs his fingers over the tattoo again.

"Don't get, like--" 

"What," Alex says, "sentimental? You got my fucking doodles tattooed on your _body_ , you utter _sap_!" He _cackles_ because he's an _asshole_ and John elbows him and can suddenly breathe again, the weight of the moment dissipating, his chest loosening, the color fading from his cheeks. Alex gives him a solid shove and John turns around to shove back. The bathroom isn't that large, and they tussle and bounce off the walls and doors until Alex's back is against the door and his arms are around John's waist and they're embracing and panting and still laughing a little. Alex presses their foreheads together, grinning, and John can't help but grin back.

"You like it?" he asks, almost shyly. It doesn't matter--it's not about Alex, it's about John, it's John's body it's--

"I love it," Alex says, and John relaxes all at once. "I love you."

"Now who's the sap?"

"Uh, still the person with the tattoo, actually," Alex says, and John shuts him up with a kiss. It starts off as barely more than a smile pressed to Alex's mouth and shifts into something warm and gentle. He steps closer into Alex's embrace, presses him against the door, wraps his arms around Alex's back, hooking his hands up around his shoulders. Alex's hands shift against his bare back, his fingers climbing upward until they just brush the edge of John's tattoo.

Alex pulls back just far enough that John can see his face properly.

"Joking aside, I just...you, with a part of me on your body, carrying it around forever. It's like...a lot." John swallows around the awkward lump suddenly forming in his throat.

" _À toi, pour toujours,_ right?" he says. He tucks Alex's hair behind his ears and then chances looking him in the face. 

"Right," Alex says. He laughs, then. "Shit, we're gross."

"Disgusting," John agrees. 

"Probably unhealthy," Alex says.

" _Definitely_ unhealthy."

"Definitely moving too fast."

"Way too fast."

Alex smirks and leans in to kiss him again. He's barely started when Lafayette starts pounding on the bathroom door.

"You have a bedroom!" he shouts through the door. "Please use it so I can use the toilet in peace."

They look at each other in silence for a moment and then burst out laughing.

"Fine, fine," Alex says, and steps away from the door so they can open it and slip out of the bathroom as Lafayette elbows past, muttering about their intelligence and the intelligence of their mothers in his native tongue. John and Alex return to the sofa and John replaces his shirt, gently adjusting it so the seam doesn't fall on the new tattoo. Alex snuggles against his side again and grabs the remotes off of the coffee table.

"What do you want to watch?" he asks.

"I dunno," John says. "What'll guarantee I get lucky tonight?"

"You _tattooed my drawings on your body_ ," Alex reminds him. "You're gonna get lucky like, every night for the foreseeable future, you shithead."

"That's definitely why I did it," John says. "Wouldn't want to leave that sort of shit up to chance."

Alex flicks through Lafayette's queue and settles on some Food Network show, their favorite thing to heckle when they're tired and bored. He tosses the remotes to the end of the couch and pulls his feet up, stretching out and making John into his personal body pillow, as usual. Alex has no regard for personal space, not that John minds much.

"And, I'm just saying," he murmurs once he's tucked his head against John's ribs and wrapped his arms around John's waist. "In the future, we're gonna explore the effects the combination of weed and gin have on you, because if this is how it shakes out...I'm a fan, is what I'm saying."

John chokes on a laugh and rolls his eyes, punching Alex in the shoulder.

"You're an ass."

"But you love me," Alex reminds him smugly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," John says, and settles back into the couch to watch the television, Alex a warm, reliable weight against his side.

**Author's Note:**

> The French translates to, roughly, "Yours Forever," and I'm assuming that if you just finished reading 10k of fic about Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, you understand that reference.
> 
> Coming up next! Uh, hopefully the first part of a two-part Halloween special. I'm...still writing it. So we'll see how it goes.


End file.
